


Bitter Blood at War's End

by nebulaethereal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Drabble, Major Character Injury, Major character death - Freeform, War, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17938148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulaethereal/pseuds/nebulaethereal
Summary: Under the cover of night, The Order has infiltrated a DeathEater safehouse. Hermione is stuck alone in a shack, when the most unexpected person joins her for cover. While she can see him, he believes that he's utterly alone, in more ways than one.Set in an AU where the war lasted two more years before resolving**





	Bitter Blood at War's End

His blood was all over her face. 

His bright reddish-orange blood coated her eyelashes and freckles and lips and teeth. She could even taste it.

She was safe now, he'd be glad for that. He  _would_ have been glad. But he was dead.

Ron Weasley had just been run through by a ghastly masked DeathEater, and now Hermione was seated there, beneath the invisibility cloak, shell-shocked. Not long after that, she heard cheers. She was certain that these cheers weren't on her side.

Just before Ron was extinguished, Harry Potter himself was being held up by the throat by Voldemort. With little interest, the Dark Lord retrieved Slytherin's locket, and dashed that part of his soul to the rubble of battle. The stones scattered about their feet still glowed warm with various hues of thriving magic.

She could feel it, the moment Harry fell. Already, her mind went to the fact that he  _was_ the boy who lived. If she lived through the night, she'd be able to tell everyone that she knew exactly where she was when The Boy Who Lived was ended by the very source of his namesake. Voldemort held Harry like a rodent, writhing to free his neck, before all-too-easily casting the most delicate and potent killing curse. 

Hermione hadn't seen the look on Harry's face when it happened. She hadn't seen the way his body went slack in the arms of darkness. She hadn't had the nerve to stand, let alone fight; but she felt the ripple of his light ebb into the darkness which approached. 

The invisibility cloak still smelled like him.

In shock, she was unable to begin the complex process of mourning her friends--her family--her future.

In shock, she didn't even notice that someone had joined her in the shack until someone else's voice pulled at least her ears to the moment. 

"I can't fucking believe it. You fucking idiots! You could have stopped this all--how could you just--he'll ruin everything now!" The panicked, hushed vitriol began to flood from the ragged, anxiety-stricken throat of Draco Malfoy, mere feet away.

"There's got to be a way... A way to-- Who's there?!" He whispered harshly. He was aware, anyone hiding out right now was either defecting or from The Order. He wasn't sure who it might be, but he was apparently already on their side by default. There was no reason to broadcast their location. 

"Draco?" She asked, still entirely obscured by the cloak. 

"Who IS it?!" He hissed, attempting to approach the source of the voice.

Upon approach, it became plain that he was grievously injured. It looked as if someone decided to take a razor to every inch of him and etch curses into his skin. She was certain that nobody on her side would have done such a thing. She was wondering why he was here.

Fear pricked her attention, and she went silent. She couldn't trust him, no matter how apparent it was that he was on the lam from the new regime.

His expression tensed with panic as he reached around, attempting to find the hidden guest just inches from his grasp. When they both heard footfalls to the left of them, skirting the perimeter of the small shack, they both felt the same cold chill overcome them.

While Hermione attempted to sink into the corner, further from his grasp, she merely hit the thin metal of a tin wall. The almost inaudible creak caught Draco's blood-covered eye, and he lunged forward swiftly. 

His hand grasped fabric first, and he quickly yanked upward. At first she was terrified that he was intent on exposing her, and she recoiled into herself-- her knees impossibly cradling the sides of her face and jaw. 

Rather than reveal her, he threw the cloak over the pair of them quickly, while simultaneously cowering with her between the wall and a large empty crate. 

She initially saw his intention, peering up at him. Confusion swelled within her, but she had bigger issues. She quickly attempted to shove him from beneath the cloak, for fear of him bringing them both down.

With extreme gentleness, he grasped her wrists and butted his blood-wet forehead against her own. " _Please_ ," he whispered in such a way she merely felt it rather than heard it.

Unable to fathom a more reasonable course of action, she hunkered beneath his crouched form, and let the cloak obscure them entirely as Ron's killer peered in to inspect the creaky shack.

Hermione stared at him. As the DeathEater casually removed his mask and enjoyed the night's victorious air, she stared. As he pulled out a fire-red flask to take a long drink, she stared. While the blood from Draco's chin dribbled along her hairline; while it traveled down her forehead, onto the bridge of her nose, and over pursed lips, she stared.

Draco took notice; curious, but silent.

The man wandered toward the riotous celebrations, leaving silence and devastation in his wake. 

Hermione felt Draco relax around her, apparently hovering over her like an Egret fishing, or Dracula embracing another victim with his cloak.

"His name's Grant Porter," he offered under his breath.

"He killed Ron," she spoke, firmer than she thought possible.

"I see..." he wondered what she was thinking. He could tell, by the way her body remained tense, that she wasn't defeated.

As the battle came to an end, and the war felt finished, two sides had found themselves hidden under the cover of night and a fallen-hero's regalia. Without a word, they both realized the truth of the matter: they weren't on opposite sides, not anymore. Not since Draco was tortured by Voldemort himself. Not since Hermione was given front-row seats to the murder of her best friends. Since then, they'd been transmuted by war into that which war creates so many of: orphans to a cause. 

Draco had held such hope that Harry Potter would succeed, that he allowed himself to fail ad naseum. He'd failed to save anyone but himself; his parents were first to discover.

Hermione took defeat to heart, and managed the roles of morale-booster, medic, magician, and master of magical arms.

Perhaps there was no other course for them to take, but the portkey in her pocket, leading them into a surreptitious entombment from the rise of darkness.


End file.
